Yellow is the Color of Her Eyes
by Little Red Rose on the Valley
Summary: A father-to-be reflects on his past and the perils of his position.


If he closed his eyes and made an effort, he almost could remember.

It had been a long, long time ago. He was around two years old, his younger brother was not in the picture yet, and they lived in Prince Edward Island, with his mother's relatives.

He knew, from being told, that his parents met in Toronto, in college. They married as they finished school and, with no money to their names, moved back with his mother's parents. They were hardly happy about it.

His father recounts it with a shudder.

Yet, he was only a toddler, and he was spared of the worst of it. At least then.

His memories are much more peaceful. He remembered that his mother liked taking him for a walk in the marina. He remembers that summer sun that shone in the Atlantic Provinces, but hardly warmed his skin. He remembers trying to run it the pavement, but every so often messing up his step and falling to his knees.

His mother would walk behind him, chuckling softly, and pick him up back again, to try one more time. In that fleeting moment, he would smell her, the salty scent so resembling the sea breeze, touch her hair and look deep in her eyes, the yellow hue around the pupils.

It was like the ocean in the twilight.

Soon after, his father would find a better job, and the small family would relocate back to Ontario.

An inland town, far from the sea and the lakes.

The salty scent fainted soon after.

The years went by, he adapted easily to life in Ontario. The promenades in the waterfront were replaced by skating on a rink, he begun a lifelong friendship with a boy in his neighbourhood, and his parents made a brother out of him. Twice.

However, the marriage upon which that family stood wore over time.

It was alright in the beginning. It would be unfair of him to say he had an unhappy childhood because of his parents' constant arguing. Looking back, he could only detect animosity after his brother was already born, way after.

It started small, as well. It was discreet, some coldness. No more displays of affection, no more smiling, no more family breakfasts.

It was not great, but it was not terrible, either. They could live like that; it would not have hurt. So many marriages survive in that stalemate for long after the kids were shipped off to college.

After his youngest sister was born, then it got worse.

His mother wanted nothing to do with the baby, she would stay locked in her room for hours at a time. In the beginning, him and his brother would knock ever so often at her door, to which she would respond, in a strained voice:

"Go away." A pause, and then: "Please, go away."

The younger boy would then go downstairs to the living room and wail that his mother did not care for him, while himself tried to cajole him into playing outside or finding something to eat.

Later, his father would come back from work, with some take-out food. Neither him or their mother would eat with them, and he had to make sure his brother ate properly.

Some six months of it, and his mother went to some kind of doctor. She stopped locking herself in the bedroom, but she still did not pay any mind to her children.

She would go out as soon as him and his brother were in the school bus, and would only return after his father came back from work, when they would argue and shout at each other until late at night.

He often made fun, if not demeaned, his brother for his habit of sneaking around the house, compiling dossiers about their family, but he fails to point out how often he would sit on the staircase, just out of sight, while his parents went out on each other.

His parents did not seem to mind, they hardly constrained their fighting around the children, and their friends and neighbours, any longer. It was an open secret, one often discussed amongst townies.

They suffered over it. No parent would allow their kid to socialize with them, and they each found their way to cope. He remembers his sister's penchant for imaginary friends and his brother's loner act.

He had to concede, albeit very privately, that his magnetic charisma and nonchalant attitude may very well be due to the impending ostracism and need for some human connection that his parents failed to give him, and his neighbours seemed keen in denying him.

Time passed. Scars began to mark their souls. Nothing changed, until it did.

He was there on that pivotal day. That final fight. The closing act of twelve years of marriage.

For once, he did not try to hide at his room as he heard his mother stomp her way up.

When she crossed him, on the last step, she said, without looking down at him: "I'm sorry, honey."

She left that night and never returned. His siblings did not ask, and their father never told.

It was only when she called, four months later, that they learned she was overseas, in Spain, in graduate school for Marine Biology.

It just was, and it would be for then on.

His father wasted no time in grieving. He felt like he should hold this against him, but if he was honest to himself, he did not grieve either. His mother was gone much before she actually left.

He was not surprised either when his father announced, a few years later, he would be remarrying. It was not that far-fetched. Despite being a single father, he was not without his charm, albeit a ditzy one. It should be said that he is aware that this fatherly quality, natural to those who have to raise their children alone, may be attractive to certain women.

Especially those with two daughters of their own.

Soon enough, they were hitched together, and the seven of them tried to figure out how to live with one another, especially when space suddenly started to be a coveted premium in an admittedly large, yet cramped, house.

Despite everything, he was very glad his father got remarried. Despite evidence to the contrary, he had very good taste in wives.

While his stepsisters acclimated with certain difficulty, and mixed results, his stepmother joined his family seamlessly, occupying a space in their hearts that should be someone else's privilege.

Even in his, the self-appointed _enfant terrible_.

Now, as an adult, he was at peace with it all. He achieved success, in his finances and in his personal life. He made do with his mother; he even calls her semi-regularly.

He even told her she was to be a grandmother.

He should he happy, and he honestly was, but he was also increasingly anxious each passing month.

It was hard keeping his mind from wandering back to those years, to his childhood, to the bad times and the deceivingly good ones.

He was afraid his wife would leave him, just like his mother did. He was afraid his child would have to go through the same difficult times he did.

He was afraid they would have this child, and then they would be happy for a while, and he would feel whole and content for once, and then, eleven years down the road, it all would be taken away from him.

One might say he would benefit from a level-headed talk with his wife, but he could not force himself to do it.

The rational part of his brain argued that, if it was stressing and nervousness-inducing for him, it was much, much worse for her. The emotional part of his thought process was that he should not give her any ideas, he gave her enough reasons to bounce as it stands.

He loved her, he loved them, but it was not enough. It was never enough.

He closed his eyes and breathed out. He still heard the sound of the waves, smell the sea salt, he saw those big, yellow eyes, now painted over blue.


End file.
